“Thank you.”
I walk past the desk clerk and make a point of saying hi. I met him yesterday – he’s a student from the Congo, and we’d chatted about coming to the “big city” for school as I’d done so many years ago. Now I must force myself to exchange pleasantries, as if I haven’t just found the body of someone I cared about. Then I continue on to my room. I have not snuck in. I have not attempted to avoid security cameras.
I need to call Marco. I must warn him before my name hits the news in any way. I open my suite door and walk in, phone in hand, ready to call–
Someone has been in my room.
At first, I only stand there, clutching my keycard as if I’ve entered the wrong room. For a moment, I actually wonder whether I have.
It hasn’t been ripped apart, as one sees in the movies. The opposite, actually. The sheets are pulled up, the pillows in place, the drawers all closed tight.
I’m not a messy person. I can’t be, with my tiny Rome apartment. But as I tore out this morning, worried about Jamison, I’d glanced back at the room, shuddered and hung out the Privacy Please sign so the maid service wouldn’t see the mess.
I exhale. Okay, there’s my answer. Maid service. The sign must have fallen off, and someone came in to clean.
Except the room hasn’t been cleaned. The sheets are pulled up, but the bed is not made. There’s trash in the basket and a dirty mug on the nightstand.
I check the door. The Privacy Please sign still hangs from the knob. I glance up at my room number, but that’s silly. My keycard wouldn’t work in the wrong door. Also, I can see my belongings scattered about the room.
Maybe the maid service came in and then noticed the sign and stopped.
Does that makeanysense?
It doesn’t, and I know the answer, as much as I hate to admit it.
Someone broke in.
It wasn’t a random thief, either. Isabella’s killer knew I wasn’t in my suite. They came in and planted something. Planted evidence to frame me.
I hesitate, my brain insisting I’m mistaken, paranoid.
Someone’s framing me for murder. How the hell can Inotbe paranoid?
But I’m overthinking this. Turning a casual redirection ploy into a full-fledged frame-up. Based on those texts alone, I would only be questioned. It would temporarily divert the investigation, setting both the police and the media on a juicy target. A serious frame-up requires a lot more than summoning me to the crime scene. It needs…
I look at the room.
Evidence. Planted evidence.
I lunge forward and start searching. Pull back the sheets, looking for… What? Bloodstains, as if I’d crawled in covered in blood?
Clothing. They could put blood on my clothing.
I grab yesterday’s clothes from a chair, where they lie crumpled. As I’m turning from the window, I catch a glimpse of a police car. My breath stops, but again, I tell myself I’m being silly. It’s a police car in New York, and it’s not coming…
The car turns toward the hotel. I walk to the window and look down to see it pull into the loading zone. Two officers get out and head for the front door.
They’re responding to an unrelated call. Maybe an early-morning disturbance. Just because you can afford five hundred bucks a night doesn’t mean you won’t smack your wife around.
I didn’t tell the police where I was staying. Sure, they could get that information from Isabella’s assistant, Bess, but it’d be easier to just call me and ask.
Hey, Ms. Callahan? You weren’t supposed to leave. I’m sending a car to pick you up. We have a few more questions.
Even if theyarehere for me, it’s just more questions.
Then why is it uniformed officers instead of detectives?
Well, that’s proof they aren’t here for me, isn’t it?
